


Details in the Fabric

by kyrilu



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Will Graham came back from Minnesota, he showed Jack Crawford his wrists.  “Here,” he said.</p><p>Post-1x11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Details in the Fabric

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is almost essentially the same as the Jack & Will scene from [let them sleep](http://archiveofourown.org/works/841065) but more trippy + slashy + painnn-y + up-to-date with current episodes. Because apparently my id likes the idea of bedridden!Will being sorta-comforted by Jack. --My placeholder title for this fic was WOOBIE ANGST~
> 
> Also, warning: bit of emotional infidelity on Jack's part because of Bella/Jack, but my headcanon maintains that an OT3 is on the horizon. (Namely, she and Will shall bond eventually, starting when she brings books to him in the hospital -- it totally happened in book!canon, so.)

When Will Graham came back from Minnesota, he showed Jack Crawford his wrists. “Here,” he said. There were circles under his eyes, deep and dark. He knew what they thought. He didn’t know -- he didn’t know. He felt the handcuffs snap around his skin, and let Jack lead him down to an interrogation room.

“Who are you, Will?” Jack said from across from him. “Where is Abigail Hobbs?”

“I don’t know,” he said. He mumbled the words. “Jack. I told you, the _fluid_ , I think I’m drowning.”

He slumped into unconsciousness. Jack’s fingers were on his wrists again, and they were taking his pulse, and he heard Jack shout for an ambulance.

 

* * *

 

Still darkness behind his eyelids. Then he saw Abigail Hobbs, illuminated in light, reach out to a girl who looked exactly like her. They talked to each other inaudibly; Abigail was smiling and laughing. There was something in the shadows, though. Will could sense him.

The dream ebbed away.

The metal was still on Will’s wrists. Handcuffs; still the goddamned handcuffs. His entire body was numb, all sensation dulled: he couldn’t feel what he was lying on (a hospital bed, maybe?); he couldn’t hear what the man in scrubs was saying to him; he didn’t flinch when a needle broke skin.

He was drowning before. Now he _leaked_ , drained and drained and drained, and the stag trampled. Left footsteps all across his mind.

 

* * *

 

He dreamed, and saw corpses, and didn’t know which ones were his. The ones that he made -- the ones that he unmade, really. Gareth Jacob Hobbs. Abel Gideon. And how about those others? They felt like his. He brought their flesh and blood to his mouth and ate and drank--

 

* * *

 

Time ebbed away, rushed back. Will open his eyes, saw that there was a tube feeding drugs in his arm, and dry-heaved, half-vomited, but there was nothing to come back up. What was _wrong_ with him? Mental illness, Hannibal said. Dementia. Will Graham was crazy, fucked-up, and Jack Crawford had handcuffed him to a hospital bed.

He could hear, now, though. The machines were beeping around him. He tried not to see the nurse that Abel Gideon had killed; the vision was flickering practically within his grasp. Mercifully, it didn’t come. Will slunk back into darkness, his body aching like it was on fire.

 

* * *

 

Jack Crawford at his bedside. _Oh_ , he thought, and didn’t meet Jack’s eyes. Will forced himself to speak, and finally asked that one question, that one fucking question: “What is _wrong_ with me?”

It was almost a sob.

“Encephalitis,” Jack said finally. One word.

“What?” Will said, blinking. “I had a brain scan, Jack, there’s nothing wrong with me neurologically. Dr. Lecter took me...” He shut his mouth. _Dr. Lecter._

Jesus Christ.

“He lied,” Will said. The sentence was a sharp accusation, which fell into a sigh, hopeless and soft and pathetic. “He _framed_ me. But that doesn’t. That doesn’t make sense.”

He remembered standing around a desk. Pacing. Turning around, Dr. Lecter on the other side of the desk, keeping a rhythm. They were circling each other without touching. Opposites, but not quite. Mirrors. He was absorbing Hannibal Lecter into his bones and blood, and then the jigsaw pieces tumbled down and aligned.

Will breathed, “He’s the Ripper. He’s the one who’s been killing. All these deaths around me.”

Slowly, Jack said, “Do you know what you’re saying, Will?” His voice was dark; the lines around his forehead were tight.

“Yeah,” Will said, “I do.” He closed his eyes momentarily. He was surprised at how much better he felt; was it the drugs pumping in him? Was it this twisted revelation sweeping through him, pulling him down into something like emptiness, he didn’t want to _think_. But he pushed himself to say, “Lecter is Hobbs’ copycat. And he killed Dr. Sutcliff and Georgia Madchen. He’s been _playing_ with me all this time. And -- and Abigail, he knew--”

Oh God, where was Abigail? He...he had to protect her, didn’t he? His surrogate daughter, Lecter had said. But Lecter had said a lot of things. He helped her hide Nicholas Boyle’s body, after all. Will wanted to protect her -- he held hands with her, hands dark against the backdrop of the bright window -- yet. Yet.

Jack had been right about Abigail since the very beginning.

“Dr. Lecter knew that Abigail Hobbs was her father’s accomplice,” Jack said.

“Bait,” Will correctly quietly. “She was Hobbs’ bait, to draw in his victims. Where is she, Jack? It isn’t. It isn’t her fault; she had do it to survive. Where’s Abigail, Jack? Do you have her in custody?”

“No. She’s gone missing.” Jack didn’t look at him. His eyes were on the ground; when he looked up, they were wet, filmed over with moisture. They kept each other’s gaze; Will shivered at the contact, but he held it. “You’re right, aren’t you? It’s him. It’s _him._ Not you. Because -- I know _you_. Tobias Budge and Franklyn Pierce; that was all him. You really believe he’s the Ripper?”

“Sustenance,” Will whispered. “The organs are his -- our -- sustenance. He’s a cannibal.”

Jack’s voice rose to a snarl: “ _Miriam Lass._ He was in my house. He said that he was _sorry_ that she was dead. And Bella, me, we--”

“Where is he?”

“Gone,” Jack said. “We’ve been trying to look for him. After I arrested you. Trying to see if f he knew anything more about you; he was hiding some things last time I talked to him.”

“Of course,” Will barked. “Of course he ran.” He sunk deeper back into his bed; he knew that Dr. Lecter would be able to avoid the authorities, the man was goddamned _loaded_ and was smart enough to escape capture. He probably killed Abigail right before he took off.

Maybe she was with him, even.

Jack took out his cellphone, stepped out the room to make a call. It was his voice that lulled Will back to sleep, rushed and almost reassuring.

 

* * *

 

When he opened his eyes again, the handcuffs were gone from his wrist. Jack was beside him again. Will remembered the look in Jack’s eyes when the truth had sank in.

Everything _hurt_. He heard a sad, mournful keening noise akin to an animal; he realized that that was him.

It was all ice, all water, before, but now he was gas. Something invisible hanging in the air. Drifting into his lungs and choking him. He thought he was getting _better_ \--

No, this wasn’t a hallucination. This was a panic attack. Hyperventilation building up to constriction and blackness; he couldn’t control himself, he couldn’t control anything. Goddamned fucking delayed reaction; he was screwed-up, Lecter was right, never mind the encephalitis. Lecter was right.

Jack shouted for the nurses. Then his tone dropped lower: “Breathe, Will. Breathe. You know how to do the exercises? I’ll count it off; inhale, then exhale. One, two, three, four, five. One, two. One, two, three four, five.”

Will forced himself to keep in time with Jack’s count. He could feel his heartbeat -- formally a jackknife stabbing, cutting a hole in his chest -- relaxing. Slipping into regularity. Jack touched his hands; that was the moment when the benzodiazepine shot through his veins.

 

* * *

 

He had a dream that Abigail was a raven who shed her wings, and grew white swan wings instead. She took off into flight. Her feathers spiraled down, and Will caught them, and Abigail was falling.

He had a dream that Dr. Lecter was telling him a fairy tale. _Are you the villain?_ Will said to him. _Are you the wolf, are you the dragon, are you the evil king?_ Dr. Lecter said, _Are you?_ and turned into a stag and gutted Will with his antlers.

He had a dream that Alana was looking at him like she loved him back. She looked so _sad_ ; she knew she knew she _knew_ what he could succumb to. Alana pressed a kiss to his forehead. She walked away into a field of bright flowers, toward the sun.

He had a dream that he was burrowing his face into Jack Crawford’s shoulders, screaming without sound, and that was the closest dream to reality; he _felt_ , it felt _real._ He chose _this_ , it wasn’t Abigail nor Dr. Lecter nor Alana, but those endings wouldn’t work for him, not him.

 

* * *

 

“Still here,” Will said, a twist of a smile on his face. “They probably need you, Jack. Go look for Lecter, for Abigail.”

Jack shook his head. “I trust my team, Will. There hasn’t been any new developments yet. I’ll go when they need me. Right now, Graham, I think it’s best that I stay.”

“So I could discuss Lecter with you?” Will said, an eyebrow arched. “I’m having panic attacks and nightmares almost every other hour. Just leave me to the nurses or call Alana over.”

“Alana’s helping the investigation,” Jack said. “She was one of the closest people to Hannibal. She’s...determined, Will.”

Will nodded. “Yeah. So you’ll be here. Okay, yeah.”

He closed his eyes. He felt like he had wings.

 

* * *

 

Will pressed a finger to his left wrist. Slightly reddened by the handcuffs. Jack Crawford gave him a flash of a rueful smile, then smoothed out his expression, all business. He said, “You wanted to be useful, Graham? We’ve got some places flagged for Lecter’s credit card.”

He eased a map on Will’s chest, propping it up. Gas stations, convenience stores, hotels...all marked with red Xs. Will traced the path of them. “All right, guru,” he muttered wryly, and the pendulum swung behind his eyelids.

When he opened his eyes, Jack said, “Welcome back,” and gently coaxed the words from him. Their hands were touching again -- his: dry and shaking; Jack’s: rough cop’s hands and steady.

 _Bedrock_ , Will thought. He was a little bit afraid, but not really.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Aw, Jack.”_

“‘ _Jack’ what?” Crawford said._

“ _You kill me, you really do.”_

\--Red Dragon, Thomas Harris.


End file.
